Claire Savage gripped the wooden knob of the stick shift
and dropped the limited-edition pink pony into low gear
for the steep climb up the bridge that spanned the Houston
ship channel. On a Saturday morning when the worst driving
hazard should have been glare from the relentless Texas
summer sun, something just beyond the crest of the high,
arching bridge interrupted the progress of weekend traffic.
As a chain reaction of red taillights flashed, she jammed
a foot on the brake of her 1967 coupe. Her gaze flew to
the rearview mirror and she pleaded aloud with the truck
on her tail not to collide with the recently rechromed
bumper. The driver struggled but managed to control his
heavy-duty pickup and the fully rigged boat that
fishtailed behind him. Within moments, everything ground
to a standstill.
Claire switched off the finicky air conditioner and
cranked the window down. She pumped the clutch with her
left foot and accelerated with her right as the traffic
crept forward, inching up the sharp incline along with the
other vehicles. Rubberneckers turned their heads to catch
a glimpse of the nuisance that dared to delay their
interstate progress.
Curious like everybody else, she sat tall in the seat and
craned her neck to see beyond the sedan in front. When a
long-legged, yellow Lab pup lumbered between the cars up
ahead, her hand flew to her face to cover the gasp that
escaped her mouth.
Horns blared and the bewildered animal darted in one
direction, then another. Panic ballooned in Claire's chest
for the poor dog that was surely moments from tragedy. She
punched the emergency flashers, shifted the manual
transmission into neutral and pulled the hand brake.As she
reached for the door handle, another flash of movement
caught her eye.
A male figure in faded jeans and a black T-shirt wove
between the vehicles, alternately appealing to the dog and
then waving thanks to the drivers for their patience. The
scene was as charming and heroic as it was dangerous and
foolhardy.
Who was she calling foolhardy?
Her hand was still poised to push the door open so she
could call the dog to safety herself. Beaten to the punch,
she breathed a sigh of relief.
Three foster pets at one time were enough. She needed to
find permanent homes for Buck, Tripod and R.C. before she
took in any more animals.
God's grace was clearly with the Good Samaritan as the
otherwise aggressive Houston drivers became amazingly
cooperative with the rescue attempt. Claire's heart melted
over the loving way he coaxed the terrified Lab, now
paralyzed with fear.
"Come here, buddy," the man urged, as he crept
closer. "It's okay, Luke's gonna take good care of you."
Shuddering from head to tail, the pup cowered on the hot
pavement and hung his chin. He flinched the moment a
gentle hand made contact with his dirty coat, but then
lifted huge, pleading eyes in gratitude. The man squatted,
scooped the dog into his long arms and held it securely to
his chest.
Claire swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking of the
lost sheep parable. But the thought was immediately erased
when the man turned about-face to carry the dog away from
the traffic. She was glad for the dark shades over her
wide eyes as she studied him.
Where his face was Bruce Willis attractive, the flesh on
the left side of his neck, from his jawbone to the collar
of his shirt, bore an angry scar.
She sucked in her breath, ashamed to be staring. "Thanks,
everybody," he called but seemed to avoid any particular
eye contact. "God bless you for what you just did," she
said aloud, though he was out of earshot.
As traffic began to inch forward, she kept an eye on his
progress until he made it to the side of the bridge, where
she lost sight of him.
Savage Cycles was only minutes away as the crow flies, but
the drive seemed much longer with the memory of the rescue
scene on constant replay. Claire viewed the mental picture
of the man in black from every angle. The close-cropped
dark hair and clean-shaven jaw packed a masculine punch.
The muscular arms that embraced the pup belied the gentle
nature of the stranger. The long legs encased in denim
gave him a casual air. The ruddy scar tissue.
An unforgettable image.
Arriving at her destination, she found the parking lot of
Savage Cycles already a hub of activity. It was no
surprise since most serious bikers were gearing up for the
annual Black Hills Rally. The regulars lived for these
weekend get-togethers at her dealership, giving it a
constant party atmosphere.
That was just one of the reasons she had been determined
to become a partner, after observing the thrilling and
unfamiliar sport of motorcycling as Sam Kennesaw's
business manager. When the former owner married and moved
back to East Texas to resume his teaching career, Sam sold
his pride and joy to Claire. She'd come to love this wild
business, as he had. Now the hectic job was her sanctuary
from the painful nightmare that couldn't be counseled
away, the memory of the abuse that couldn't be buried
deeply enough.
She thrived on the fact that every chopper sale was a new
challenge, each customer a unique discovery about human
nature. The sport offered a never-ending supply of
interesting characters who were more concerned with her
knowledge of product and finance than her personal
history, physical features or local celebrity.
"Good morning, Claire," Justin called from behind the
counter.
She waved a greeting to her parts manager and the leather-
clad customer being assisted. En route to her office she
stopped to survey the showroom with a critical glance. A
half-dozen new bikes were angled before the windows,
beckoning to passersby.
Angled the wrong way.
She ground her teeth. The employees had followed her
instructions without question when she'd managed the
business for Sam. After signing the papers and taking
control, she'd overlooked the occasional incident when
someone would "do it the old way" in spite of her
instructions.
Sam had warned her there would come a time when she'd have
to put her foot down and make it clear who ran the show.
Claire crossed to the display, muscled the first chopper
into the correct position, tilted the handle-bars just so,
then stepped back to admire the effect.
"You need help, ma'am?" Justin joined her.
"As a matter of fact, I do." She smiled patiently.
"I left specific instructions for all the bikes in this
display to have the front wheels point west. Why didn't
that happen?"
Justin crossed his arms and tilted his head as he studied
the bikes. "Well, I reminded Don of that this morning but
he seemed to think Sam's old way was better."
"Last time I noticed, I was signing the checks around here
now. So, which way do you think we should set these
bikes?" Claire widened her eyes expectantly, sure Justin
could deduce the correct answer.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he held back a
grin. "I think they're gonna look real fine set up the way
you want them."
She motioned with a crook of her finger for him to follow
her across the room. She placed her back to the window.
Justin mimicked her position, now standing where he could
view the display as a customer would. The morning sunlight
flashed on the spokes of the wheels like thousands of
finely cut diamonds.
"There's more chrome on the carburetor side. That's what
catches the customer's eye when they walk through the
door, don't you think?" She watched for his reaction,
wanting him to see the reason behind her request, but
she'd have it her way whether he did or not.
He bobbed his head and gave her a two-fingered salute of
understanding and approval.
"Consider it done," he confirmed.
"Thanks." She nodded, then continued down the narrow
hallway to her office.
Claire dropped into the comfortable leather chair behind
her desk for a quiet moment. Touching the ever-present
cross at her throat, she reflected on the drama of her
morning commute and the face she could not purge from her
thoughts. Neither could she shake off the despair and
terror of the innocent puppy.
Refusing to give in to the somber mood that threatened to
settle over her heart, she swiveled to the credenza behind
her desk and flipped the percolator's "on" switch, and
began poring over Sam's computer programs. For the
umpteenth time she marveled at the simplicity of what he
had created when he'd turned his hobby into a thriving
business.
"There's a visitor for you at the front counter," Justin's
low Texas twang rumbled through the intercom speaker.
"I'm on my way."
She rolled the chair back as she stood, smoothed her hands
down the front of her crisp, linen slacks and tugged the
hem of her jacket. Her heels clicked a staccato beat on
the terra cotta tiles of the showroom floor as she crossed
the room. She paused to refold a T-shirt and position it
directly atop the stack, then straighten the hangers on a
display rack.
Justin acknowledged her approach with a nod of his head
and the man before the counter turned her way.
A polite smile curved his mouth and then the look of
recognition she'd come to know spread to his eyes. The
year of public display as Miss Texas and ensuing product
endorsements would always be a business asset, even if the
road to the title had been paved with her innocence.
"Claire Savage, I'd know you anywhere." His smile
broadened. "It's great to finally meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, sir." She accepted the
stranger's outstretched hand. "Are you interested in a
chopper? We're accepting deposits for the Southern
Savage," she said, always promoting her dealer-ship's soon-
to-be-released signature bike.
"Actually, I'm interested in you." He released her from
his grip to fish a business card from the coat pocket of
his expensive designer suit. "The name's Arthur O'Malley —
" he paused, seemingly for a reaction " — of Today's Times
magazine." He emphasized the New York publication's name
as he handed her the card.